


Silent Noon

by contrarian



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Only a tiny bit, Songfic, i love vaughan williams and i don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contrarian/pseuds/contrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring, 3020.<br/>"In happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Noon

**Author's Note:**

> Tooth rotting fluff. Songfic, kinda. you guessed it! Silent Noon by Vaughan Williams. I don't know if there's much call for classical songfic, but here you go :)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FGeLUQQH6w  
> 

It had been a beautiful March.

Faramir and Éowyn had spent the better part of the last 4 months in Minas Tirith. They had had a short break after their quiet autumn wedding, but it was a busy time for Gondor, for the King, and so for Faramir, the Steward.

She remembered how surprised he had been to have the title stay with him and his family. Éowyn hadn't been surprised. Who had done more, sacrificed more, in the service of Gondor, than her husband? Who had toiled and endured loss like her husband? And what possible reason would Aragorn have to strip him of a title he would have inherited regardless?

Modesty was one area in which they differed in temperament, one among many, but he loved her intolerance for pretension, and she loved him for his mild and unassuming nature.

In any case, her husband had been buried in work- Aragorn, mighty and noble as he might be, hadn't been in Gondor for years. Faramir called his long days and short nights 'his job'. She preferred 'hand holding'. Ah, she knew it was the way things had to be. It rankled though, to see so little of him so soon after they were married.

When he told her that they were spending the spring in Ithilien, Gondor be damned, she was certainly surprised. But he reminded her of his promise of a garden- and while work on their home in Emyn Arnen had been going on since June, she had not expected to see the fruits of that promise, for, well. Years.

They had arrived at the beginning of March, and it had been a beautiful March.

Éowyn thought about it all as she lay in in their bright, airy bedroom. She was not surprised Faramir had already got up- judging by the light, it was late in the morning and her husband loved to tend the garden. Bare earth so far. He had hands, of course, but there was a stretch of land behind the house he kept for himself, and for her. She thought he was crazy, up at the crack of dawn every day, but it made him happy, so she indulged him. She was well aware that come late summer she would be grateful for his attention.

She rose at last, and changed. She did not disturb her maids- it pleased her to be left alone in her bedroom, cool, silent.

Leaving her hair loose, she quietly went to the back door to watch him work. He was the ranger, but the skill of silent movement had more uses than war.

It helped that the door was open.

As she peeked her head around to look outside, preferably without his attention, she heard a voice. Faramir's, she quickly placed it. It bemused her, though. She had not known he sang.

It seemed he sang, and sang well, a clear, cultured tenor. Éowyn was fascinated.

 _"Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass_  
_The fingerpoints look through like rosy blooms:_  
_Your eyes smile-"_

He seemed to choke up.

_"-peace."_

He ended quietly, at almost a warble. Éowyn moved to stand in the doorway, and saw him sat on a stretch of grass, a small sapling cupped in his hands. He put it down carefully, on the grass, and put his head in his hands. She let go of the door and went to him.

His damp and reddened face gave her a look of surprise as he turned his head to look at her. "My lady," he sniffed and rubbed his wrist across his nose- Éowyn noticed how grubby his hands were. _Elegant_ , she thought with a spark of amusement, at her normally graceful and neurotically neat husband.

He rubbed at his eyes, and she caught his wrist. "You have a beautiful voice," she said softly. She trusted that he would open up in his own time. He sighed a little.

"Thank you."

They sat in companionable silence, Faramir fidgeting with the dirt under his nails briefly before setting his hands in his lap.

"I would hold you, Éowyn, but I'm afraid I will ruin your clothing," he said. She laughed a little and picked up an arm, putting it around her own waist. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, as far as he was able. "You are a singular woman."

"And you haven't spoken about the cause of your distress." Éowyn was certainly not distracted _that_ easily.

"No." He paused. "My... my mother had a small garden. There was a cherry tree." He gestured to the sapling. "She loved it, she loved the garden, and," he swallowed, "Boromir used to tell me about her, her in it. It reminded her of home. He told me once, about how lonely she had been. He barely noticed at the time, of course, being a young boy, but he looked back, and I guess he talked to uncle, and other people. I don't really remember her, so-" he broke off. Éowyn moved closer, and stretched her legs out more comfortably. She clasped his hand as he moved it back to his lap.

"But I remember that song- Boromir taught me the rest. He didn't have the voice for it- he was a strong singer, but better suited to leading marching songs and soldier's music, as you might expect. There are a lot of memories in that song. And everyone in them is dead. Even the garden was destroyed, that last battle." His voice had drawn to a whisper, even as he spoke without inflection.

She held him.

"It's trivial. I have already mourned them all," he muttered.

Éowyn gave his shoulder a little shake. "Your brother died not a year past! You would not begrudge any friend of yours their grief after such a time."

He gave her a watery smile. "I have been so lucky, to find such a wise and fearless wife."

She grinned back. "Are you mocking me?"

"Never." He said, his face suddenly serious. They sat together, for a while.

"Finduilas' garden will be remembered by this one. You will always know her, at least in this one small way." Eowyn said at last. Faramir smiled warmly, drying his face. For a long time, they kissed.

 

**3020, late July**

It would soon be time for Faramir to travel back to Minas Tirith. He had corresponded with the King, of course, including a lengthy and incredibly amusing argument about proper address. There are a limited number of ways to say 'call me Aragorn', and the King had exhausted every single one. At first heated, the subject had become a running joke, that would no doubt be continued when the Steward returned to work with the King. Éowyn would be staying in Ithilien- she planned to join her husband later, but she had an estate to run, now, if small as of yet. Soon enough, Faramir would permanently reside in Emyn Arnen, however, Éowyn was under no illusions as to the political situation in Minas Tirith- Faramir went with her blessing.

It was a stiflingly hot summer's day. The noon sun was bright in the sky, and Faramir had been in his office all morning, preparing early for his departure in the following week, but she was outside, in Faramir's young, but blooming garden. There was a bench, by now, so that the Prince of Ithilien and his wife would no longer suffer the indignity of sitting on the grass (not that either of them had minded too much).

Éowyn was sat with a few pages of handwritten Rohirric. Faramir had written an intentionally humorous set of overwrought love letters to test his learning, and she had to say, she was quite impressed. It was shrewd of him, she thought, to aim for humour instead of risking misjudging a serious letter. Maybe she would persuade him to put his skills to the task writing serious Rohirric poetry? She nearly laughed aloud. It would certainly be a challenge, a very different rhythm, culture, requiring a very different style. This piece was near perfect in syntax, but there were turns of phrase and tone that were simply unsuited to the language, and he always valued her input in improving. She feared Éomer would be harder to impress! No doubt her husband, ever resourceful, would find some way.

She had almost finished a short commentary in the margins of the pages when Faramir came to join her. She opened her mouth, but something about his expression stopped her from speaking. He sat down beside her, and looked out. No hands were in sight. It was a beautiful view, river in the distance, and silence- there could have been no one else in Ithilien. He opened his mouth.

 _"Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,_  
_This close-companioned inarticulate hour_  
_When twofold silence was the song of love._ "

By the end, he was looking her straight in the eyes. She felt tears, and wiped them away, furiously.

"That was the last verse," he murmured, a radiant smile on his face. "Would you like to hear it all?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! really appreciate feedback xx


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